The Ramp To Recovery

By Vishikha Deogawnka

October, 2016

The music on the night radio matched my mood- cheerful, lively and happy. I sang along at the top of my lungs; nothing could stop me today. Except traffic lights. My friends said I drove like a grandma, extra cautious and scared of going over 30kmph. I didn’t mind. I liked speed when I was on the track, not on the roads. The last thing I heard was the thunderous sound of two dynamites colliding. The sky spun around in half a second and numbness spread to every inch of my skin. The warm blood trickled and I sank into the darkness as the joyous song faded.

October, 2018

There isn’t much to say when you’ve suffocated every cell of your body to believe that they need to live. That they can’t let go so easily, even though floating in an outer space in an ethereal plane would be a different kind of heaven. Looking at myself in the mirror I’m filled with an anguish so intense and inexplicable that the broken shards of glass resting in the crook of my new constant companion, my wheelchair, are my only source of comfort and the sound of dripping blood my only solace. As I sit here every night, I feel it has become a habit now, a worship of sorts; the blood from my scars- the red turmeric adorning the idol of helplessness and misery; the legs which ‘don’t work like they used to before’. It’s alright I believe; if each cell of my body sings of a death it wishes to embrace, who am I to deny them what they yearn for so ardently? It’s alright, I tell myself again, my last pair of sneakers, lie in a corner, gathering dust, just like my dreams.

As these thoughts float upon the melancholic grey tremulations of my mind, I notice the newly broken mirror lying shattered at my feet. Maybe I shouldn’t have flung the ornately embellished antique mirror at the wall, instantly shattering it into a million sharp pieces. Little did my parents know that I could no longer bear the sight of my own reflection; the broken shell of a person I had been reduced to ever since that ill-fated October night, two years ago. It was a normal Friday night; I was going out to blow off steam after another intense week of training. Every muscle in my body was sore but that could not dampen my spirits. The roads were empty and I was high on endorphins as I replayed today’s events in my head. I had broken that untouchable record. All these years of training had boiled down to this one day; seeing my coach’s eyes glisten with pride and happiness, my name at the top of the list on the display board, just like in my dreams. I had made it to the Olympics.

Nevertheless, the pieces of the broken mirror would help me soothe my pain. As I stared at the pieces lying around my feet for what seemed like an eternal night of darkness, grudgingly, my window shone with the first glimmering rays of sunrise. Light, deceiving, blinding, cruel and mocking, seeped in through the gap between my black curtains and for the first time I noticed that the curtains were made of black lace. The sunlight etched upon it lovely designs, flowers and leaves made of a thousand beautiful threads coming together to form an amalgamation of enchanting images existing in perfect cheerful incongruity with one another, harmoniously lit up, forming the mesh I use to keep every possible form of light away from me. I have a bitter- sweet relationship with these curtains; they help me escape the world of sympathy and forced kindness but also confine me to the ravine my life has now become. Until today, they were just drab curtains to me. For the first time in a while, I was struck with just how beautiful they were.

A sharp knock on the door- probably my nurse with the disgusting soup. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Solitude was my closest companion and Interaction was rude to him. As I closed my eyes, darkness engulfed me, once more. I have become used to this numbing comfort. However, today, even in the darkness I could not erase the image of sunlight being refracted by the shards of glass, casting a multitude of colours across the miserable marble floor- violet, indigo, blue and green and all the other colours of a rainbow. Curving smoothly, just like a racetrack. I pop another sleeping pill and bury this thought where I can never find it again.

Days pass by slowly when you have nothing to do but mope and wait for help to execute the simple demands of nature. Independence is a cadence of laughter I have long forgotten ever since tears of helplessness and abject desolation have taken over me. The bi-monthly appointments to doctors, the physiotherapy sessions, the nights of sleepless pain, are all becoming a little too much to bear. But worst of all, being pitied by every single person around me and the silent looks of ‘this is why you shouldn’t give your daughters freedom’ or ‘who will marry a cripple’, felt like a knife going through my gut. Back when things were normal, my parents were often mocked for letting me, their only daughter pursue her dream of becoming an athlete, for letting me do exactly what made me happy as long as I was safe and graduated decently. I knew the value of my freedom and I never abused it. But some others did, on the day that I can never forget. The deafening sound was the impact with which a jeep had rammed into my tiny car; the local college boys had been drinking again. While they escaped with a few scratches, I was in the ICU for 2 weeks and was paralysed, possibly for life.

That was two years ago and I had almost made a full recovery. Except my legs. And what use is an athlete without strong legs? Tortured by my own mind, more than anything else, tonight, only painkillers would lull me to sleep and I slowly drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

It was next Friday night, when somehow the nurse forgot to wheel me back to my room. I had fallen asleep on the porch after dinner and now uninterrupted silence laced the serenity of the night. I was alone outdoors, after what felt like an eternity. I had been caged for too long. Perhaps by my fate, perhaps just by the invisible shackles of my sheer hopelessness; the doctor said that my condition was worse mentally than physically. I had always scowled at these words. But today, something felt different. I had a chance, just for one night, to explore what remained of my former life. Perhaps running my hands along the jagged edges won’t do much except gash my fingers further, but I’ll try tonight. I had never cared what the world had thought about how I lived my life. But ever since the accident, I felt like a bird ensnared in a net, unable to break free, without any rights or independent will.

Slowly, I wheeled myself to the pool behind our house. The pool where I had been happiest as a child. The pool which had been the spot for several post-race cool downs. It felt like ages ago. Throwing caution to the wind, I edged closer to the edge of the pool. The surface of the water was calm, dark blue; the velvety water inviting me in. I resisted the urge but all self-control faded as I saw the surface of the water glistening with the few lights inside the pool. Glittering and sparkling, just like the rainbow shards of glass at my feet a few days ago. A feeling, not of pain but of long-forgotten excitement, captured me and I lowered myself into the pool with significant effort, just wanting to forget everything for a few moments. Clean and smooth, the water engulfed me, just like the crisp wind had greeted me while I ran my last race. As the cold water left my warm skin tingling, I felt as if I was being cleansed of my invalid self. I could move, without help. I could swim. l could feel my body awaken. I dove to the bottom of the pool; I felt slightly stiff and my legs protested but my will was stronger than them. Calming blue and purple hues adorned my vision; it was a whole new world, waiting to be explored. And as the glistening drops of water streamed down my face and I resurfaced from the pool, I was born again, twice as strong.

October 2020

The Telegraph: Former national athlete turned swimmer returns after 4 years and a near-death accident, braves all odds to make it to the Olympics once again.

By Vishikha Deogawnka